bucketlist | Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

Entry tags:

meme

Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

Homestuck Kink Meme

Helpful notes

Both art and fic are welcome and encouraged.

The character limit for comments on Dreamwidth is 16,000 characters (somewhere around 2700 words).

If you need an anonymous image host for porny stuff, you can use http://www.postimage.org

It's called a kink meme but we welcome non-porn requests too. Just make sure you give anons something to work with beyond just the pairing.

Looking for something specific? Try hitting the tags in our Pinboard bookmarks.

RULES

Your kink is okay. So is everyone else's. Do not leave prompts or comments that bash characters/pairings or put down somebody's kinks/interests.

If your prompt or fill contains common triggers such as graphic violence, rape/non-con, or abuse, please label it in the comment subject line, e.g.: "Vriska/Tavros [abuse]" or "Gamzee/any [violence]."

Please put the character(s) you're requesting in the comment subject line! That makes it a lot easier for potential fillers to find requests.

Having prompts filled is what makes a kink meme successful! Try to fill a prompt for every handful you leave.

There's a master list of fills in this post. Please link yours when you finish them!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

You're awfully glad the society is open on Saturday, at least for a little while. You don't have to try to call them from work, wondering what Gamzee's destroyed this time. It would be so much easier to contain if you could keep him in his room, or even in his coccoon, but he's too good at breaking down doors to risk it, and... well, locking him in the tiny sleeping space feels so cruel! You've been told that some trolls are cocoon-trained - some people say it's actually healthier to do that, because they actually like small spaces - but you can't bear to do that to Gamzee.

Even so, you've been kept on hold for a very long time, and it's stupid how many people must be calling them first thing Saturday morning! It's not unusual, though, from what you've heard. The society isn't a very popular organization, and they apparently get a lot of hate mail and prank calls. There are a lot of people out there who think that after what the trolls tried to do to humans, being studied and kept as pets and whatever is too good for them - even the little troll-owner memos that you frequent get a lot of flames! But the society keeps going on about research opportunities and the need to study their fascinating social structure and whatnot, and apparently the powers that be still agree with them enough to allow the compromise to keep going, for now.

A lot of them are probably culling requests, too. It's sad, but after some of the stories you've read you can understand why some of them have to be culled. You just hope you can help Gamzee before he's that far gone.

After what feels like forever the music stops, and a perky voice answers the phone. "Good morning, you've reached the Trollian Preservation and Research Society, how can I help you?"

"Yes, hello there!" Whoever this is sounds far too cheerful to be a real person. You wonder if it belongs to an AR. If it is a robot, well, its programing had better be up to date. You hate dealing with the ones that aren't. "My name is Roxy Lalonde and I adopted a troll from your shelter a few months ago - oh, where is that number?" You rummage around a bit in your purse. "Ah!" Finally you pull out a scrap of paper, reading off the half-faded numbers.

"One moment..." There's a pause. Either it is a human, or an AR programmed to pause for as long as a human would. Dirk couldn't have done a better programming job, and that's saying something. "Yes, we have your information here, Ms. Lalonde. This call is relating to Gamzee, indigoblood, six sweeps old, correct?"

"Yes, that's right." Six sweeps? You'd forgotten he was that old! That was nearly a teenager!

"Has he posed a physical danger to yourself or to any other human?"

You guiltily quash the memory of the pet-sitter. "No," you say, "he's just being very destructive of my property. I think it might be separation anxiety."

The voice paused. "What are the outward signs of his anxiety?"

"Well, he's torn up a lot of my furniture and books, and when I'm home he just huddles in the corner. It's like he knows he's done something wrong, but when I'm not here he can't stop himself -"

"Hmm." The voice interrupts you. "Yes, this does sound like separation anxiety. Let me look at Gamzee's records. Please hold."

Again? You're about ready to throw something across the room! You don't, though, if only because it would wake Gamzee. "Yes, thank you."

More music. When it stops again the voice has changed to a timid-sounding young woman. "Um, thank you for waiting, Ms. Lalonde. Um. You were asking for information on Gamzee?"

"Yes, I want to know why he's destroying my house! I do my best to take care of him, but he keeps damaging everything!"

"Yes, er, we believe that it's partially due to a personality change brought on by sopor withdrawal."

"Sopor... what?" you echo. "But he sleeps every night in a whole tank of the stuff!"

"Yes, well... cooking it changes its chemical makeup and has a very strong psychoactive effect. Our bloodwork indicated that he was given high dosages of cooked sopor for an extended period of time before he was captured and taken back to the shelter."

You gape. "But he was fine when I first brought him here! Didn't you clear him for adoption?"

"Being drugged for that long causes personality changes that take some time to fade," the representative answered timidly. "It was all in the liability release paperwork and consents to research that you signed, Ms. Lalonde. I have records of it here, with your signature."

"That's not the point!" you snap, mostly to cover your embarrassment over the fact that you weren't really paying attention at that point; you were just getting through it as quickly as possible so that you could take Gamzee home.

"Well, um, since you signed the release of liability, we can't be held responsible for any damage. But we can send you over some information, um, on how to best deal with the syndrome. And you should probably check his history again and see if there are any triggers for his, um, his destructive behavior -"

"Yeah," you say, resting your head in your hand. "Fine. Send the information to my account address, it's still good."

"Yes, Ms. Lalonde, we will. Um, I'm awfully sorry about this!"

"It's fine," you say, a bit nettled. You can't help yourself, though; under your breath you find yourself muttering. "I liked the AR better," you say.

"Um, Ms. Lalonde, I am a -"

You roll your eyes and hang up before she can finish.

Sopor withdrawal? Really? You guess you had best read those documents that you've ignored for three months, if you can even find them. You think you know where they are, anyway, somewhere in that drawer you reserve for important things.

---

You find the packet of documents after a while, although it's a bit dicey; it had somehow gotten shuffled under a couple years' worth of tax forms and a couple of citations for public intoxication. They gave you your pet's history in a big plain manilla envelope, when it's starting to seem to you that they should have given it to you in a flashing neon red folder with the words "READ ME" written in lime green glitterpen. Not that you would've read it anyway, but at least you might've figured out it was important, and to ignore it at your own risk. And boy, did you ever - maybe if you'd read this earlier your furniture could've been spared.

The notation about the drugging is, in fact, in there, along with a lot of other things. There's a few pages about his first owner, an old fisherman who took Gamzee out on the ocean in his fishing boat and took care of him. Apparently he'd been birthed by a feral mother grub - probably set free with a group of trolls by a well-meaning owner who'd thought that they should be allowed to live free, and who hadn't properly processed the idea that unidentified trolls were usually culled on sight and that identification records were deleted when they were declared permanently lost. The feral children never lasted long, anyway; by the time the old man had found him, most of the others had already died of exposure, and the indigoblood grub was the only one left alive. He'd taken the little guy in, had him registered with the society, and took care of him until he fell ill and died. His family in the city hadn't been interested in keeping a troll, and he'd declined too quickly to make arrangements for Gamzee's care. It was all very sad, you think, what happened to him; you've read that trolls bond to their first caretaker very strongly. That man was practically his father.

Then you turn to the pages about his second owner, the man who rescued him from the shelter after the society reclaimed him, and start reading.

In a few minutes, your blood is practically boiling, and you have to take a break and mix yourself a very dry martini just to get through it. If there hadn't been a note near the end that the man was already dead, well, you'd probably go out there and kill him yourself out of sheer rage. You're barely a troll-owner at all, you've only had one and that was for a few months, and you're still so mad at the guy that if you could get a bead on his skull you'd probably shoot him anyway, even it was just a skull...

You hear a faint honk behind you - the bike-horn you'd bought for your pet in the hopes that he'd destroy them instead of your house, not that it ever helped - and turn around, trying to compose yourself. Gamzee is standing there behind you, dressed only in a pair of boxers with hand-painted smiley-faces on them - your favorites, and you definitely notice that. He looks so forlorn without his makeup, his mouth too small for his face. "Hi," he says, voice quiet all over again.

"Hey, sweetie," you say. "What's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?" Maybe she needs to look at his sopor mix. They say that the cooler bloods are more prone to nightmares on the memos, and it might be making this whole thing worse.

He shook his head. "I just wanted to try to mo- to make things right," he said, voice rasping. "I know I've been up and doing a lot of horrible things lately."

"Gamzee, I -"

"Naw," he says, interrupting you. "I'm a - a bad troll. And I don't quite know how but I wanna make it up to you somehow, wanna paint a kick-ass picture or something. Something that'll make you smile. You've been so good to me, and I -"

You get up and shoosh him, in a hurry. "Shhh," you say, rubbing his back and looking up at him - it's hard to reconcile him being so tall with these childish moods of his, but you're starting to get used to it. "I'm thinking that we can just talk for a while, okay? That would make me feel better."

"Yeah, sure," he says, with a small closed-mouth grin. "I'm a great listener -"

You shake your head. "I know," you said, "which is why I think it's my turn to listen for a while."

"Your turn?" he says, cocking his head to the side, confused.

"Yeah." You smile, put your hands on his shoulders. "I mean, you never talk about yourself, Gamzee! Maybe I wanna know a little more about you. That's not weird, is it?"

"It ain't something anyone's asked me before," he says, frowning. "I mean, the people at the shelter up and said everything was in that little folder, and I didn't have to tell nobody anything because I didn't want to up and scare 'em away."

"Well, that's over now, right? Because I have you now, and I'm not going to get rid of you." You would've done it after the second destroyed chair, you think to yourself, but you're afraid saying it would hurt his feelings and that's not what you're trying to do here. "So you can go ahead and tell me about your life, and I won't be scared away. I'd be happy you told me, in fact."

"Huh." He smiled a little bit wider - you can see the edges of sharp teeth. "So... I can up and tell you anything? You ain't joking with me and you ain't gonna get mad?"

"Sure ain't!" You hold up your martini glass, even though you're pretty sure he won't get the joke. "Souse's honor."

He actually laughs a little at that, if only because he apparently notices that you're joking and figures that he ought to do something. "Well, ain't that a miraculous thing," he says. "All right. But lemme up and get some proper clothes on, if that's okay? A brother can get real cold in here."

The thought of why he was coming out to talk to you in his boxers in the first place crosses your mind, and you ignore it. You two have some important conversations to have, and you just can't dwell on that right now! "Okay," you say. "I'll meet you in the parlor when you get changed. Oh, and Gamzee - you can swear as much as you want when it's just you and me, okay? I can guarantee you I've heard worse."

"Sounds like a motherfucking sweet plan to me," he says, and he's almost relaxed as he turns away. It's progress.

ORIGINAL ROXY/GAMZEE PROMPTER LOVES THIS AND WOULD LIKE TO SNUGGLE EVERYTHING PLEASE. OMG Roxy you are such a terrible pet owner and yet I want you to keep him forever anyway.

Everything this person has said, I second. Fervently.

They are so adorably clueless together! And I apparently cannot resist the combination of Gamzee + fingerpaint murals, I don't even know why it hits me right in the Adorableness Detector so hard, it just does! Gaaah.

Roxy being at wits' end yet never thinking to read the papers... *fights desire to shake her* But I find I can forgive her on the strength of 1. not saying the thing about the second chair, and 2. not giving him back to the shelter. She really has been a recipient of serendipity...

...yeah, Roxy is one of those pet owners who figures that the magical bond between master and pet will somehow conquer all issues, and it just doesn't work that way! Kind of like those people who think that a dog's dominant behavior means that the dog is warming up to them, when really it means the dog's scared and decides that it needs to be in charge to handle its fear. She's starting to learn a little, though!

Anyway, thank you, and I'm hoping to have more of this up once proofreading is finished!

one of those pet owners who figures that the magical bond between master and pet will somehow conquer all issues

Aaahh, one of THOSE. *facepalms* Having worked in a pet store, a shelter, and a grooming salon, I can safely say that THOSE people are too often lawsuits waiting to happen. Because "don't worry, he won't bite!" is not the correct response to your dog growling at someone; and "oh, that's just what he does!" is even worse. *doublefacepalm*

(And oooooh, the ones who misinterpret dominance as friendliness! Or aggression toward a larger dog as "he doesn't know he's not a big dog, too, haha!"...! But I'll shut up now before this stops being about your awesome story and instead turns into something that belongs on a Retail Job Horror comm.) :D

No, Roxy. Keeping cats does not prepare you for keeping trolls. Trolls are a little bit tougher. XD
Thank you! This grabbed me a few days ago when I saw the prompt and it's so much fun to write.

Oh anon this is lovely -- heartachy in all the best ways. I am cheering for part 3!

Thank you! :D Part 3 is being proofread right now - I've reached a tough part of the story, and I'm nervous about doing it right, so it might take a little longer!

Authoranon, hope everything's okay with you!

Just wanted to let you know I'm still looking forward to your story and am glad you intend to continue it! (Seriously, how is Gamzee that adorable? It defies laws of physics! I want one of my own now!)

<3

But... yes, you know that feeling you get when your brain is dead from work or whatever and you just can't seem to get anything done? That hit me hard a few days ago, and I'm very close to being done with part 3 of likely 4 parts, and so... yeah. Hoping to at least have one part done by Sunday!

[For this segment, TW for violence and abuse - specifically for mentions of trollfighting, blood, mind-control and disfigurement.]

---

You spend the rest of the day relaxing in the parlor - you love calling it that, because it makes the fact that you spend most of your downtime there lounging around in your pink kitty PJs even more hilarious - with Gamzee in a pair of clown pants and a t-shirt finger-painted with one of his silly symbols. He's more relaxed than you've seen him in years, as he sits down and talks about the mellow old man, the first guy he ever remembered seeing.

"Those were good times," he said once, "just up and motherfuckin' good times, the old man and me. He'd take me out to sea in his little boat and fish and just talk to me 'bout just about everythin', and we'd go back and clean his fish and eat. Didn't go to the city much - old guy said he didn't much care for those motherfuckers in their safe little houses, talkin' about whatever motherfuckin' bullshit the man told 'em to think. Whoever the fuck that man was, he just didn't care about whatever he fuckin' said. Just stayed out and grew his own plants in his house and made these awesome-looking motherfucking cigars that he'd never lemme touch."

Well, you think privately, that explains a lot. Hopefully he'd never mentioned that detail to the Society. "He took good care of you, huh?"

"Oh, yeah, he was a motherfucking awesome guy. Taught me how to paint an' everything. Motherfucker loved to watch me paint," he says with a huge grin on his face, sloshing his martini onto his shirt.

You wince slightly - you do hate to see perfectly good alcohol go to waste! "Gamzee, dear," you object. "Your drink!"

"Oh, yeah," he says, and grins sheepishly. You figured that the drinks might help him loosen up - you've heard that trolls don't have much of a tolerance, but that it's safe enough as long as you don't give them too much. "Sorry. Didn't mean to up and motherfuckin' waste your stuff."

"Oh, it's all right," you say, as friendly as possible. "I'll mix a new one if you'd like."

"Naw," he says, shaking his head. "You want me to be motherfuckin' honest, I ain't too fond of this stuff. These green things are pretty motherfuckin' tasty, though."

"The olives?" You blink, then grin at him. "I've got a whole jar of those in the fridge! Just give me a second...."

By sunset you're on your third drink, and Gamzee is halfway through the enormous jar. He's gone through a lot of stories about the old man, but now he's quieter, like he's not sure what else he's got to say - like he's gone through all of the good memories, and the bad ones are really starting to get to him, and he's not sure what to do. You don't want to push him - you've made a promising start, anyway.

Later, when he's asleep, you go out and buy the biggest jar of olives you can find. You have the distinct feeling you're going to need them.

---

It's Sunday afternoon when the last few stories about the old man finally run dry.

"So there I was," he was saying, "playin' out by the water, paintin' up a storm for the old man, an' then these two guys... they're comin' up the road in one of their big black vehicles. Comin' up to me, all up and askin' where my owner was. I told 'em he was in there, and he was tired, and he'd told me to paint him the best motherfuckin' painting I've ever done. They weren't listenin' though." He sighed a bit, closed his eyes. "They went in and came back out and said the old man was motherfuckin' gone, and I had to come back with 'em...."

He falls silent. You put a hand on his shoulder - he really loves it when you touch him, and you wonder if all trolls like it so much - and he leans back, eyes staring up at the ceiling. "You can go on if you want to," you say quietly. "You don't have to."

"Ain't much to say," he said. "I mean... it ain't easy to just up and talk about."

"Will it make you feel better to try?" You try to smile at him. "I promise I won't make you do it, but if you want to... I'm here."

He looks at back at you - he's still not wearing makeup, and his eyes are shot through with indigo streaks. Maybe you need to check the sopor in his tank. "Promise you won't take me back there," he says, very quiet. "I know I've fucked up a lot, but I -"

"Gamzee." You gently reach out and pap him on his cheek, then pull his head into your lap - the horns are a little uncomfortable, but you don't mind. "Whatever happened to you wasn't your fault. I believe that, okay? So nothing you tell me will make me feel worse about you." Your voice hardens a little bit. "Although it might make me wish I could bring that creep back to life so that I could put a few more holes in him."

"Heh." He smiled just a little bit. "You ain't gotta worry 'bout that, miracle sister," he said, slowly and a bit sleepily. "The mirthful messiahs went and decreed that he deserved a bad death, an' the motherfucking universe up and agreed."

He's never mentioned anything about mirthful messiahs before. You file it away for future research. "Good."

It takes a few more minutes of quiet and another half-dozen olives before the whole story comes out. "I went back to the shelter," he said, staring off into space. "Took a little while, but some big motherfucker came by and took out a couple of us, includin' me. Didn't talk much, but I guess they didn't really care too much. Said I was gettin' old enough they weren't gonna ask too many questions.

"He took me home in a big van with the others. Said we'd never have to up and motherfuckin' go back to the society, or the research colonies. Said that as long as we did what he said, we'd have fun." I guess," he says, after a lot of long silent contemplation, "that first thing I remember 'bout it is when he took me home. Said I'd never have to motherfuckin' go back to the research colonies, never have to be sent away. All we had ta do was what he said for us to do.

"He took us to this big house, and... well. There were an awful motherfuckin' lot of trolls down there," he said, his eyes very far away. "They kept us penned up, didn't feed us right. Heard some of 'em beggin' for more, and then he'd up and take 'em upstairs, and I never motherfuckin' saw 'em again."

You don't say anything. Nothing you say feels like enough right now. You just rub his arm and wait for him to talk.

"It was..." He looks so broken, so much smaller now. "It hurt, okay? It motherfuckin' hurt. I was... he made me mad and trained me, gave me clubs and put me up in that motherfuckin' arena that was full of all kinds of motherfuckin' blood stains, and he made me fight other trolls. Only fed me if I killed someone. If I did really well he'd leave me the body, and I'd just... use the blood to paint in my cell, 'cuz I was goin' motherfuckin' crazy in there, all alone.

"It was motherfuckin' brutal. I had to be the best at killing, I had to be motherfuckin' angry all the time, full on murder mode day in and day out... you couldn't have gotten too close to me or I would've up and torn out your throat! I was a motherfuckin animal!"

You drink the last of your martini and put the glass aside, back behind you, out of Gamzee's reach. Better safe than sorry. "Is that what happened to him? Did you -"

He laughed bitterly. "No. No, it wasn't me. Wish it had been, but the messiahs had another plan. Guess I can't go an' complain to 'em, huh? Not after what happened to him."

You nod and give him another olive; he takes it, slowly, and nibbles the pimento out of it before he goes on.

"So he gave us these motherfuckin' decoys sometimes when we did good," he starts slowly, eyes tightly shut. "He called 'em baiting trolls. Dunno where he motherfuckin' got 'em, and I don't motherfuckin' wanna think about it. The way they stared at us when we..." He falters and stops, pops the rest of the olive in his mouth and chews it to mush before he composes himself well enough to go on. "We were supposed to use 'em for practice, right? The people who watched us liked it when we killed each other with motherfuckin' style, so we were supposed to kill the easy ones so that we could do it better in a real fight. He'd let us eat 'em, too, and... well, sometimes I couldn't motherfucking help myself, I was so motherfucking hungry. So... one day I'm in the ring with this kid, okay? Real short guy with long horns, had the sweetest face I've ever seen in my fucking life, and he's got his fists up while I'm holding my clubs but you can see he's motherfucking scared shitless. And, y'know, I just couldn't fucking do it. I just... threw down my clubs and turned away. And he just stops, and then I hear him hobble closer to me...." Gamzee sniffled a little. "Sweet little bro puts his hand on my shoulder and says that he's sorry they hurt me so much like that, he's real sorry. A few motherfucking seconds ago I'm about to crack his skull, and all he can say is he's motherfucking sorry they hurt me! You believe that?"

You can't say much to that. All you can do is nod. You've heard of stuff like this happening with trolls, part of that social structure the scientists keep talking about, different sorts of relationship patterns that they followed that differed from human patterns. The sociologists and psychologists went crazy for stuff like this.

"After that, well, I was so motherfucking flushed you could see the red right through my paint, man, I'm not even motherfucking lying. I just took that sweet little kid and hugged him and I wouldn't let him go, even when the sonofabitch tried to take him away. Yelled at me for not killin' him and I didn't fucking care, nobody was gonna hurt him, not while I was around. That kid, he was a motherfucking miracle, you know? I just wanted to grab onto him and keep him safe, thought that it wouldn't be so bad if he stayed with me." His laugh was like nails on a chalkboard now, or like a bike horn scraping against the road. "I was so motherfucking stupid. Guy figured it out, used him like he used food with the other kids. Motherfucking kept him separated from me until I had a good fight, then shoved us in the same pen for a while. No motherfucking privacy, but I didn't care, I was just so glad to be with him."

"What happened to him?" you ask. "I could try and find -"

"No. No, you motherfucking can't." Gamzee grimaced, his eyes squeezed shut. "He's motherfucking dead, my motherfucking little miracle -"

"Gamzee," you say, alarmed, reaching out - but he claws at you and you barely pull it away in time. "Gamzee, please," you say.

"He's motherfucking dead," he repeats. "Another troll he picked up, a blueblood, real mean lady, decided she wanted some time with my little miracle. Tried to fuck with his mind so that he'd go, but I wasn't gonna up and let my best thing go. I knew what she was motherfucking doing, I could feel it, even though she couldn't get to me..." He grinned a nasty, scary grin. "So I motherfuckin' up and did her back. Send her chucklevoodoos the sopor couldn't do a motherfucking thing about. Made her real mad.

"So instead of fighting me back, she...." He choked up, His voice was starting to go down again under your relentless shooshes, but it's nowhere near back to anything resembling normal. "She took control of his mind. Made him throw himself of of the wall around the arena until he finally landed wrong. Poor little bro couldn't motherfucking up and move his motherfucking legs, so the big guy took him away. Said he was gonna have him... destroyed." He jumps up fast enough that you can't stop him, pushes you to the side and starts pacing. He's making this weird noise, almost like he's crying now.

"It's okay, Gamzee. It's okay -"

"He was gonna motherfucking destroy him! Like he was fucking nothing!" He's screaming now. "I snapped. I motherfuckin' snapped. I don't remember a motherfucking thing, 'cept he was draggin' me away at the end, and that bitch was bleedin' at my feet, her arm beat to a motherfuckin' pulp, and if he hadn't grabbed me I wouda done the same to him. Why the motherfucking fuck would a brother do that? Why would anyone motherfucking hurt a guy like him? Why?" That noise isn't crying, you realize then. It's something else, because now it's a hell of a lot louder now and he isn't crying. His eyes are bulging out, his fists are balled up, his mouth twitching hard. "Why?" he's screaming, now. "Why the fuck are you people doing this shit to us!?"

You jump to the side just in time to avoid a hell of a sucker punch. Fist goes pretty deep into the sofa, tears through upholstery, comes out full of fluff. He spins around again, slashes at the poor abused loveseat with a handful of claw. It goes through the cover like it's made of fucking butter. Gamzee's shaking so hard you can see it, and his teeth are practically digging into his lips.

"We didn't motherfuckin' do anything wrong," he's yowling. "It wasn't our motherfucking fault! Some motherfucking warmongers decided to do a motherfucking thing, and you treat us all like monsters! Is that fair!? How is that motherfucking fair?"

"It's not!" you say, although there's a pang of guilt behind it - you think of Janey, crying her eyes out and clutching a photo of her granddad, and letting you hug her for the first time in forever. But you can't help it. You can't think about that right now - all you can think about is getting this guy calmed down. "It's not fair, Gamzee, it's not, let me help you -"

"Motherfuckin' liars!" He reached for her, grabbed her arm hard. "You're all a bunch of motherfuckin' liars! The messiahs are gonna come down, gonna up and come down and motherfuckin' bring you to the big black carnival, and you motherfuckin' liars are gonna pay!"

You've got a split second. You can break free, you can push him back, you can risk gettin' a face full of those razor-sharp claws. You can kick at him but you wouldn't know where to kick him, it was all in that writing, and you've only just read the first few basics. You weren't expecting him to go completely apeshit on you -

You pull back and yank back as hard as you can. It throws him off, and he honks even more loudly as you both fall back onto the sofa, barely missing the hole in the cushion, him curled up in her lap. The two of you are tangled up together, and he's let go of your hand, and you could punch him out and leave him, talk to him later when he's calmed down.

You're not going to do that. You bend down, kiss him on the back of the head, stroke his hair. "It's okay," she said. "I know it's not fair, I know. I'm sorry, honey, I'm so sorry -"

"I never wanted to hurt anybody," he says, voice muffled by the couch cushion. "I didn't. I didn't wanna."

"I know, honey," you say. "I'm here now and I'm never gonna make you hurt anyone again."

"Never?" he says. He reaches out, takes your hand. "Never?"

"Never," she says. "I promise."

He's still honking when he's curled up in your lap, and you're pretty sure he's crying too. So you stroke his hair, and you hug him as he cries, and when you feel his claws against your arm because he's holding you too tightly you don't complain. When you pick him up and carry him to his pod, he doesn't say anything, just holds your hand after you put him in, until he falls asleep.

It's horrible, you know, but all you can think after the worst of it is over is that the worst of the damage, thank goodness, is on the loveseat.

---

[Last part for now. No TWs for this one. I have a few future ideas for this universe, but we'll see when they pop up.]

---

Monday morning, first thing you do is leave a message on your boss's voicemail. It's early - two hours before your usual workday starts, right down to the minute - which should satisfy his anal streak. The message is to the point - you've got shit to take care of, you'll be there a few hours late, and if he doesn't like it he'll just have to suck it up and deal.

You don't use those words, of course. You're good at what you do, but you aren't THAT good. You're not irreplacable, and you've been told more than once that if you don't watch what you say you're going to be very replacable. Still, as long as you let him know in advance and make up the time later in the week, and as long as you're okay with telling him what happens if he asks (which he never does,) he'll let you have a couple of hours to yourself once in a while. And this won't take long.

The day's not bad, you figure as you walk out. Sky's not quite as dark as usual, although still dark enough that it wouldn't do Gamzee much harm. You leave the sports car in the garage and go for the van, folding down the seats; you're going to need the room. And some help loading the cargo up and getting it out, but you've got that covered.

You get going. Wouldn't do to take too long; after the night you guys just had, you'd at least like to be there with Gamzee when he wakes up.
---

Gamzee's stirring by the time you arrive home, sleepily stretching in his tank of green stuff. He looks up at you with sleepy eyes as soon as you walk in. "Hey," he says, although he doesn't quite smile. He looks nervous, truth be told.

"Morning, hon," you say. "Soon as you wake up, can you help me with something?"

"What's goin' on?" he asks. stretching.

"Nothing much! I just need your help getting something out of the van."

"Sure," he says, and pulls himself out of the tank. The slime falls away from him fairly quickly, but you're still going to have to take care of those clothes. "Just lemme get up and changed and get my motherfucking grub on."

"Got it! Here, I'll bring you some breakfast." You leave him to get undressed and washed off, and grab him a couple of bowls, one half-full with the olives you have left from last night and the other filled to the brim with his favorite sparkly marshmallow cereal. He's already got a bottle or two of Faygo in there, so that's covered, at least.

You get back in just as he's pulled on another pair of PJ pants - you can't get over how skinny he is, how wiry. He's all muscle and scar, every bit of him, and even though he eats like a pig he never seems to gain any weight. Troll metabolism sure is weird.

As soon as he finishes downing the half-full bottle of Faygo and gulping down both of his breakfast bowls, you tap him - gently - on the shoulder. "Okay," she says. "Mind helping a sister out real quick?"

"Sure," he says. His voice is still quiet, but not nearly as diffident as it has been in the past. "I figure I up and owe you some motherfuckin' favors, after last night."

You reach out and pat him on the shoulder. "Hey," you say, "don't worry. I think I get it now."

He blinks at you. "You do?"

"Well, yeah! All that shit you went through? Sometimes you just feel like you gotta smash things up, especially when I'm not here to help out. Right?"

"I guess," he says, sounding confused. "I just... up and get mad, sometimes. It's like there's somebody else all up in here -"

"Yeah, well, I'm okay with that! I just need to give that somebody else something that he can take a few punches at without having to worry about it." You grab one of his shirts, and a pair of sunshades, and pass them over to him. "It's kinda bright out there today, so you'd better put these on."

"If you say so," he says, taking them from you. "Wouldn't want a brother to go motherfucking blind."

"Exactly!" you agree. Of course, you're pretty sure it's nowhere near bright enough out there for him to go blind, but as much as they hate even the tiniest shred of what sunshine you still get, you figure it's better to be safe. Maybe the brightness means that the scientists are making progress, you think, and someday there really will be blue skies again - but that's not going to be for years, if it happens at all. You've been keeping a close eye on that research.

He follows you out without argument, properly protected, and you lead him to where the van is sitting - the street's still mostly empty, and the few people who are passing by don't look at him with too much disdain, which is good. You'd been worried about how this neighborhood would react to having a pet troll on their street, and so far nothing's happened.

You open the back of the minivan, revealing the spoils of your morning thrifting expedition - a garish, red-and-blue nightmare of old-fashioned upholstery, a couch that probably hadn't been anything close to comfortable when it had first been made and was well on its way to sliding down into utterly hideous. Gamzee blinks groggily at it. "Um," he says, and really, you're not sure there's much more to say on the matter.

"Yeah, that's what I said," you answer cheerily. "I saw that this morning, and I said, 'Well, if there's anything that deserves to be torn to shreds and made into something much cooler, it's that couch."

Gamzee reaches out for it. "Fuck," he says, and you're pretty sure at that point that he hasn't heard a word of what you just said. "It's... beautiful. It's so motherfucking beautiful."

"It is?" you ask, taken aback. This might not be good.

"Yeah," he says, almost tenderly. "Look at these motherfucking flowers, man. I wanna tear these flowers off and make 'em into a motherfuckin' robe and wear it all the goddamned time."

"Oh. Um. Well, it's yours now! You can totally do that if you want!"

"Really?" he says, looking at you like a kid who's just seen the pony he wanted for his birthday for his entire life. "You mean it?"

"Of course! You can do whatever you want with it. All you have to do is help me get it into your room."

He laughs. "No problem, sister. No motherfucking problem at all."

---

The couch is completely whole when you leave for another uneventful day at work - Gamzee is just staring at it, still enraptured with wonder at its apparent beauty. No accounting for tastes, you figure. By the time you get home, the couch has not even a shred of fabric left clinging to its frame. There's fluff and boards everywhere, and Gamzee's wrapped up in the hideous upholstery and sitting around with the biggest grin on his face you've seen since the day you brought him home.

"So beautiful," he says when he sees you come in, all wrapped up in his new robe. "So motherfuckin' beautiful."

You can't help but grin. "So what are you going to do with the rest of the sofa?"

"Huh," he says, looking back at it. "I gotta say, haven't really given it a motherfuckin' thought."

"Well, you say," I have an idea. Here, hand me those springs."

It takes some time - it's been a while since you've done anything like this! But you've got plenty of material to work with, and before too long you've managed to pile the stuffing in the middle and clap enough of boards and springs around you to make a passable fort. It's not bad, you think, surveying your work - not the greatest, but you've got time to practice.

"Mmmm," Gamzee says as he's lounging around, resting on the fluff. "Pretty motherfucking sweet, I gotta say."

"Yeah," you answer. "I haven't done anything like this in years."

The two of you spend a long time just curled up together in your sofa-fort - there's not much room, so the two of you have to cozy up, and his horns tend to stick out of the doorway. It's cozy, though. Maybe you can get some more materials later, make a bigger one, if you two really want the room.

"It's the weirdest motherfuckin' thing," Gamzee says, in that odd humming way, the one she hadn't heard in a long time. "I know you always keep comin' back, but I think t'day was the first time I really up and believed it."

"Well, you'd better keep believing it, because I'm gonna keep coming back," you say.

"I sure motherfuckin' hope so." He turns to stare up at what little ceiling the fort has, chewing on his lower lip with those sharp, sharp teeth for a couple of seconds. "You mind if I tell you somethin'? Somethin' that's... kinda heavy shit?"

"Anything you want, hon."

"Well... when I was back at the Society last, 'fore I met you, they said I'd have to think about signing the Contract soon."

The Contract? You remember seeing something about it in that paperwork, but you're not sure exactly what it was. You've really gotta finish reading that stuff! "Sounds like a big deal," you say.

"Decidin' what to do with the rest of my motherfuckin' life?" He makes a small sound in the back of his throat. "Yeah. I'd say that's a pretty big deal."

Oh. "You thought about it?" you ask, reaching for his hand.

He takes it, squeezing it a bit. "Well," he said, "back then I remember thinkin', I might as well up and join my little miracle, y'know? I mean, I don't remember much, my head was all fuzzy from the shit that guy was givin' me, or whatever. But I thought that maybe if I just said I didn't wanna be studied, well, a miracle would happen and he an' I could finally be together again."

"Gamzee," you say, feeling that knot in the pit of your stomach again. "You can't mean that -"

"Yeah," he interrupts. His voice is darker, this time. "Yeah, I meant it. I missed that kid. Fuck, I still miss 'm. Figured I'd make up my mind when my head was clearer, but I pretty much meant it as much as I could mean anything then."

"Oh, Gamzee," you say, and pull him into a big hug. "I'm glad I found you before you could do that. I mean, if I hadn't found you...."

"Awww," he says. "But... well. If it means livin' with a sweet sister like you?" He makes a little rumbling sound somewhere in his chest. "I might stick around a little while longer."

You kiss him on the forehead, not sure how to express how warm and fuzzy and good him saying that makes you feel. "I hope so, Gamz," you say. "I really, really do."

As soon as he goes to sleep, you promise yourself, you're going to read the rest of that stuff. Or as much as you can stand before you pass out, anyway. You've got a lot to learn about how to be a good troll owner.

You're not too worried, though. You're a fast learner.

Gamzee loving the hideous couch is adorable. And I'm glad that while Roxy's irresponsible, she's also got a big heart and just enough of a slightly odd perception to be able to match Gamzee.

Thank you!
I'm trying to decide whether to de-anon and continue with this series (I've got a ton of ideas and some of them involve more of these two, while others involve robotic experts and dueling megacorporations and the occasional playdate.) Only thing that worries me is that there's another similar series by another brilliant author, and I don't want to steal anyone's thunder. Maybe I'll post some of them here either way. :D

I'd love you to continue with this.

You should continue! It's really good and even if there are others like it, that just means it's a good idea a lot of people like.
If you do continue I hope it's from Roxy's pov. :)

IT'S UPDATED! And finished, to boot!

YAY! I am as happy as Gamzee with an ugly sofa. :D

Gosh, so much I want to say, and not enough words to convey it sufficiently! Roxy is so awesome in her own incompetent (or at least, very-belatedly-competent) way -- I giggled at the "fast learner" line!

Gamzee is heartrendingly adorable in his vacillation between trying-too-hard cheer and badly suppressed fear and rage... I wanted to cry at the story of how he met and lost Tavros, and I loved all the hints about how they came to be in such a situation and how supremely Wrong the world they live in is. *shivers*

The Ugly Couch Robe-slash-Fort will forever be the epitome of adorableness, too. Figures Gamzee would think it was pretty (so colourful!) and Roxy would figure out what to do with the remains once it was "skinned". :D (I'm firmly of the opinion that building forts is a good answer to pretty much every trauma.) *Grins*

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 2/?)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 3/?)

Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 4/4)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 4/4)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 4/4)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 4/4)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 4/4)

Re: Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 4/4)